


what I am

by anto_txt, Edianares



Series: become imperfect [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Androids, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Attempted Murder, Depression, Dystopia, Family Loss, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Life Partners, Loss, M/M, Murder, Partners to Lovers, Platonic Life Partners, Police, Robot/Human Relationships, Shooting, Slow Burn, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-23 18:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14939570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anto_txt/pseuds/anto_txt, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edianares/pseuds/Edianares
Summary: Worried. That's literally what he said:worried.Like a friend would be, or a son, or any other loved one. Worried.A machine, being worried.Simulating, worry.





	1. Chapter 1

"Sure you're not going deviant, too?"  
"I self-test regularly. I know what I am, and what I am not."  
  
The way he says it, it's always the way he says things - not quite like a human, not quite like a machine - that pang of conscience that the man gets in return, and that's the neverending loop of needless concern and back and forth. Back and forth.  
Because, no matter what, Connor _is_ a machine and a murderous one at that. The kind that will shoot his own kind if need be, and will look them in the eye while at it because of the one, absolute, the very certainty that he stands on: he is right and has no doubts about it.  
Simple, clean. He knows what he is, and what he is not.  
The way a kid would.  
  
Definitely not drunk enough to bring himself to shoot a kid, hands shakier than the lights in the snowfall, the man lowers his gun. Ashamed to a point for even thinking of the possibility, still angry as fuck for the other half of himself who cannot forgive gratuituous death, no matter the circumstances. Hank really, really did not need yet another pair of ghosts haunting his sleepless nights and knows perfectly no amount of alcohol will bring him blissfull ignorance.  
  
_Fucking androids_. He'd slap him back to his senses if only he was sure the machine had any at all. Connor doesn't even look remotely scared, let alone remorseful. But ultimately, whose fault is that?  
His own, for raising a gun at him, and being unable to prevent him from murdering the Tracis. For being inattentive, never ready enough, always one second too late. For not teaching him any better, for not knowing how to. Thankfully, he's not a father anymore.  
  
One of the lamposts short-circuits and the shadows his eye-bags cast over his tired face become deeper in the dimmer light.  
Hank drops his shoulders under the weight of the world and everything feels enormous, menacing even. And it's only going to get worse. He cannot quite name that sense of powerlessness and decides to flee before powerlessness can name him instead.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
"To get drunker. I need to think."  
  
Truth be told, Hank hates the whole fucking situation to pieces. And that place, now, too. That very same place that had been so dear to him, will now remind him of how delusional he had been thinking he could teach a machine how to become imperfect.  
  
The man grabs another bottle from the bunch, leaves the android hanging in a limbo of unanswered questions, and turns towards the car. A few feet away, across the small park area lined with snow, like blankets. The swing, the slide, the tiny merry-go-round.  
Longest sip of his last fifty-three years.  
  
The seat feels colder than snow itself when he finally manages to get in the car, letting out a sigh. A single cigarette rolls out from the pack he left abandoned on the dashboard as he shuts the door behind him, cussing with gritted teeth. For a solid couple of seconds, he thought – he _hoped_ –that Connor wouldn’t follow him, but instead, of course… there is no chance he wouldn’t.  
And in fact, there he is. Sitting next to him, staring at him with that stupid look, the kind of look that would have sent a saint on a one-way guilt trip.  
“I’m coming with you, Lieutenant”, he says, calmly, “I need to make sure you don’t try to self-sabotage again.”  
And he just leans onto the back of the passenger’s seat, waiting for the man to make a move. The android glances outside of the window casually, at the swirling frozen petals that silently fall under the flickering lights, then back at him. Has if it were the most natural– no, the most _logical_ thing to do. Has if nothing had ever happened. As if Hank hadn't been waving a gun at his face only moments ago.  
“…Where are _we_ going?”, he asks.  
  
"How the fuck can you be like this?", which is most probably the less sensible question to ask an android, ever. _How?_ Because it's logical, simple as that and he should know full well by now. But his composed, even _concerned_ behaviour ticks the man off massively and he can't help it.  
Maybe he had wished for a different outcome. He had felt a jerk of sixth sense the moment his hand reached for the gun – something whispering _This is it, this is really it_ to his ear when he had asked about being a deviant. Only, he had been wrong.  
Maybe he had wanted Connor to doubt himself. Maybe he had even hoped for a _yes_.  
Hank growls and takes it out on the stirring wheel, one hard punch that makes both the tool and his old bones creak ever so slightly.  
" _Fucking androids_ ", he looses count of the times he's muttered the obvious under his breath. But he could have shot the machine and the bloody thing was so certain he wouldn't pull the trigger he even dared to defy what little was left of his patience. Is it really a given? Is he really already that transparent to his mechanical eye?  
An incredibly simple man and an incredibly complex machine who can see right through him. He'd laugh it off if only he didn't feel like breaking down, and retarded as hell.  
Fidgeting, he juggles between the radio, the cigarette, the bottle, to buy himself time. _Where are we going_.  
"Why the fuck do you pretend to care? Is that written in your program too? Get the fuck out of here. What I do or not do is none of your business."  
“…But it is”, a _gain, that look_ , “it is, since I need your help to solve the case. And for that, I also need you to stay out of trouble, Lieutenant, especially if it’s unnecessary.”  
Mute resoluteness. That’s what you would call the mask that had become of his face.  
" _You_ are all the unnecessary trouble I need, Connor", the man does contemplate the option to stay calm but ends up snapping back at the machine the moment he turns around and looks him in the eye again. "Now get the fuck outta here before I change my mind", _about shooting him_ , he means.  
And he feels disgusting for having said so, the sort of disgust that would arise in the face of justice being trampled on.  
Hank leans over, almost smothering the android with his unstable weight as he reaches for the handle, and cracks the door open for him. As a suggestion. As a warning.  
"Get out."  
For a solid instant, Connor seems hesitant. He lowers his gaze, as to express– no, _simulate_ , as to _simulate_ regret, sorting out his conflicting priorities. For a moment, a single fraction of a moment, it almost looks like a glaring display of a veiled, innocent and delicate heartache typical of an enamoured youth; the quiet sorrow of a rejected love, hurt by words too rough, too sharp, the kind of words that could easily pierce a loving heart until it bled dry: except his is dry already. As he slowly pulls down the handle, a frozen sabre penetrates the car, his lean figure carefully stepping out of the truck and moments later the cold is gone, except the one within.  
_Of course._  
What could the man possibly hope from him, let alone blind, respectful obedience? Was he expecting him to fight back, maybe to go as far as to _insist_ a little more?  
_Yes. Yes he was._  
And now he feels even worse.  
Seconds later, the door next to him cracks open and a familiar figure enters his blurred field of view.  
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ignore your request. My sensors indicate a dangerously high alcohol content in your blood and I can’t let you drive while you’re in this state”.  
_Oh_. He must’ve had a breath test performed while he had been screaming at him.  
"You treacherous bastard, having me checked without a word now, uh", offended to say the least, and hurting in a way so visceral that is hard to put into words, "can't even lower my guard in front of my partner, it seems."  
Hank physically holds himself together with both arms, one hand at each elbow. Can't bring his pride to give way and accept that he is simply wrong, and the android has indeed a really good point, because in his eyes the real and only point is to give himself oblivion first and then pain, both very well deserved for what he's done.  
And, what's worse, was about to do _again_.  
The man stretches one hand out and gives the machine a weak push, not even enough to unbalance him in the slightest. The spectre of his past is chasing him again, hunting him down in the shape of a humanoid who doesn't get shit at all and he's too tired to run.  
At least Connor didn't leave. At least, he doesn't have to carry the weight of his death, too.  
_Not just yet_.  
It's cold again, but not half as much.  
Hank looks for the bottle, and as if he hadn't just been scolded for being already drunk, downs it in one sip. He then leans forward, arms crossed over the stirring wheel, and sighs. He even fakes a laugh.  
"Should've shot you dead back there, this is what I get for playing buddies with you. Making me look pathetic as shit. You bastard."  
He's so glad Connor's still standing there, it hurts to contain. _Ridiculous_. And pathetic, indeed.  
A hand presses on his wrist, the grip is firm but careful.  
“This is for your own good.”  
"Don't you fucking dare, Connor", the remains of the laughter fade as quick as breath condensed, "I won't trust an android operating other machines in a million years."  
Battling between the option of coming out and make himself clear with a good beating, or letting him be, Hank is caught in an uncomfortably unstable pose half in, half out.  
"You really should...”, _push,_ “Put aside your reasons for despising androids so much, just for a while, and let me take care of it”, _pushing harder,_ “if you keep being unreasonable, we will end up crashing on the way home. You will kill us both.”  
  
Connor grabs the man with both his hands, finally managing to pull him out of the truck.  
Hank stumbles, unsteady on his feet.  
" _I am not fucking drunk!_ ", he shouts as loud as he can, which gives away the fact that he is indeed if not actually drunk, on the high speed lane to there. It's the growling at the back of his throat, the knot that tightens at each single word the android chooses to stab him with. _Chooses_? It just means his processors or whatever fucking else makes him think decided for him it was the safest way out.  
Funny how it is painfully clear now, even more so than before, that had he been an android then maybe Cole would still be alive. Had he been a machine, he would have been infallible.  
But he's only human and ends up spending so many seconds trying to keep himself together, only to fail more, harder, more brutally each time.  
" _I am not fucking drunk_ ", only a whisper under his breath, voice broken, nails digging eight half-moons into his palms, jaw aching from the perpetual grimace painted all over his face.

The android walks around him with slow movements, crouching slightly at the end of an arch. He doesn’t shiver, he doesn’t feel cold, not even as the snowfall gets more intense. His eyes fluctuate around Hank’s silhouette, scanning his figure for signs of distress.  
“I don’t mean to disrespect you, but I still find your alcohol level inadequate for complex tasks such as driving” he says with the utmost candour, “You need to trust me with this, Lieutenant. I am very worried about you”.  
"No you are not, you fake plastic garbage. And stop scanning me like some piece of evidence for fuck's sake", one shaky finger pointed at the android's forehead, a shadow of the gun from minutes before.  
Worried. That's literally what he said: _worried_. Like a friend would be, or a son, or any other loved one. Worried. A machine, being worried.  
_Simulating_ , worry.  
"If you were worried about me, then you wouldn't–", Hank shouts, then stops half way. It's a chain of thought so fragile and confused he barely follows himself, let alone an android.

 _How to explain?_  
How to admit to himself first, that Connor had dug up issues too painful and unresolved to deal with? Had he really, truthfully expected the android to take into consideration wounds that are only in the mind?  
Is there any point in explaining to Connor that he'd rather shoot himself in the head than having to think about the incident? And feel responsible for it? And to be blamed because nobody believed it had truly been an accident despite that one stupid beer?  
And not to be trusted because _You are going to get both of us killed, Lieutenant_?  
"Forget it", covered in snow, his hair whiter, the back of his neck aching from the cold melting, the man walks back to the car and takes the passenger's seat.  
Time to forget. Either that, _or else_.  
"Get the beers from the bench. Then you can drive us wherever the fuck you want for all I care."  
  
Connor stands there with a slightly thoughtful expression, then calmly heads to the bench next to the spot where he had been threatened, to fetch the remaining beers.  
He comes back a couple of minutes later, opens the trunk and places them inside.  
Again, the most logical option: far from the man’s reach.  
It’s warmer now, though. A thin layer of snow had covered the windscreen, which is swiftly swiped clean when Connor starts the car, and loud music fills the air. It’s a song by _Knights of the Black Death_. 

_Well I don’t really listen to music as such,_ he recalls himself saying when they first met, _but I’d like to._

The hula woman bounces up and down as the car goes backwards and Connor glances at Hank one last time, one angle of his mouth curling up a little. He looks genuinely relieved.  
Hank chews on his words then swallows them up. Thinking of the beers locked away from his irresponsible hands won't do him any good, after all, besides making him angrier - so there's no point in lingering on the poisonous ground of guilt, which will end up swallowing him up in return.  
_Logical_. It's only _logical_ even though he's not supposed to drive, because it's common sense that if you have tons of reports filed against you then you shouldn't drink, and there is no need to take it personally in general. Not with a machine. _You wouldn't get this angry at a toaster for burning your breakfast, would you, Hank?_

The man lowers the volume, for once. He'd normally skyrocket it to the deafening point but, tonight, the thoughts snowfall at an alarming rate and he can't keep up. Not alcohol-free.  
To think he might have shot the android in the head and gotten drunk watching him bleed blue all over the snow. To think he might have slipped again, and sent the car right off the guardrail, this time for good.  
_Choices_. A machine _chose_ to be worried and left him with no easy way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading our first collaborative work!  
> This is chapter 1 of a 5 chapters short-fic that is already complete.  
> We have a sequel in the works as well, so please stick with us!  
> Will most probably update once a week, or so.  
> Please enjoy and let us know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

" _I said_ ", ten too many seconds of interval just to regain the bare minimum balance to stand his ground, "I can walk on my own."  
  
The short drive didn't do Hank any good – only a few minutes, fifteen, could've been ten hadn't they been caught at every single red light – still enough to give him one hell of a motion sickness.  
"Jesus, I'm gonna throw up again, fantastic."  
Hank slams the door back in place, doesn't even bother locking the car up. Who would ever want such a scrap bunch of rusty metal in this day and age? Who would even come out in this blizzard?  
They both only just left the vehicle, and they're already covered in a thick layer of glassy white. Gusts so solid he can't even see Connor until he's really up close.  
The man rummages every available pocket before finding the keys to the front door, only to end up dropping them right in a mound of accumulated snow already reaching up to his ankles. Disappeared. _Fucking_ disappeared.  
  
" _Oh for the love of..._ "  
  
He bends down, scavenges for a short while, all ten fingertips quickly turning a violet blue, then mutters something rude about god and the seasons under his breath, and finally looks up.  
In the dim light from the LED lamppost at his back, Connor looks like a solid black silhouette cut out of cardboard. Smaller, for some reason, even though he's in favourable position, and thinner than usual. Frail, almost, out there in the storm. Okay, the alcohol is playing tricks on his vision now.  
  
"Well, help me would ya? I can't see shit."  
“Coming, Liutenant!”, Connor answers promptly.  
  
Despite the snowing, his voice is so clear it’s almost unreal. Like a dream, or in this case a borderline nightmare of some sort where he's the only one who’s freezing to death; Connor squats behind him and sticks his hand in the snow, while the two keep searching the homogeneous white layer: he must’ve seen exactly where they fell, that's for sure, or he can tell thanks to his magical wonders of technology. Cold wind blows through the android's hair as he gets back up with an encouraging smile, keys at hand. At least the awkward moment in which they were both bent next to each other in front of the door, looking like a pair of idiots making snow angels in the dead of night, during a snowfall outside of Detroit, lasted reasonably briefly.  
“Here”.  
"...Right."  
It takes every ounce of what's left of his self-control for Hank not to show signs of frustration for having been so quickly outwitted _again_ by a goddamn machine, but he manages. Somehow.  
And it takes him every last bit of leftover clarity of mind to target the door lock properly – who keeps an old style mechanical door lock, nowadays? A magnetic card would have been so much easier –, considering he keeps on seeing two of everything from time to time. Two right hands, two set of keys, two locks, two Connors as he turns around. _Jesus_.  
  
Door ajar, not a sound from the inside. _Fucking failure of a Saint Bernard, the bloody military might as well invade his territory and he wouldn't even flinch_. Hank steps in and shakes his head, snow falls off revealing the ruffled strands of silver underneath.  
Time to see what the hell he intends to do.  
Where does the android live, anyway? If it can be called living at all in the first place. At the police station maybe? Perhaps he might have his little parking spot in the basement or something. In the span of a brief phase of awareness, the man realises he practically has no idea about what it means to own an android.  
Wait, _own_? Now _that_ was fucked up.  
Should he call him a cab or what? God, it's coming down like no tomorrow, his brain feels like a chunk of stale chicken straight from the freezer and can't follow the simplest chain of thoughts.  
There's only one Connor next time the man looks at him, just standing there, calm and unbending, like a lighthouse in the middle of a stormy sea.  
"You coming in or not? Place's gonna be a bloody igloo at this rate thanks to someone who broke my window."  
_Just great_.  
  
As expected, a small quantity of snow was resting in front of the window, and the apartment feels indeed cold. Not quite unbearable, but still unpleasant.  
“I’m sorry, but I had no other way to confirm whether you were alright or not. The situation was calling for immediate intervention”, he says, closing the door behind him, “I’m sure Cyberlife will provide you with all the necessary assistance for repairing your window. I’m very sorry for the inconvenience”. He looks like he means it.  
"Cyberlife better pay for my therapist for having to deal with you, forget the window", but the kitchen does look like a mess, gusts of wind coming through and flurrying snow inside all over the pieces of broken glass and dog food.  
As Sumo's nowhere to be seen – the bloody thing must be sleeping soundly on the bed – Hank decides to just shut the kitchen door behind him and leave it for the day. All he takes out is the gun, call it a precaution, just in case some idiot has the brilliant idea to break in a cop's house.  
  
Back to the living room, TV still on a late night news channel, the man stares at the android who's still standing in the hallway. He looks absolutely out of place, like some misplaced weird souvenir.  
"Look, I am absolutely pissed and I have no idea what to do with you, so just stay put and don't make me regret letting you spend the night over."  
_For the love of all that's holy, he just said it_. He definitely did. Beginning of the end, now he can't throw him out anymore out of principle.  
Moreover, the more he thinks about the concept of leaving a human-like object standing in a corner in dim light, staring back at you in some anonymous department's basement, the more he feels uncanny, even though it’s perfectly reasonable. This, and the fact it’s storming outside.  
Connor looks at him with a hint of surprise; apparently, neither of them had pictured this kind of outcome, and he just stares back at him, two dark eyes so deep it almost feels uncomfortable.  
  
“Are you alright?” He asks, after a long moment of silence.  
"Why you askin'?", that came out snappier that Hank meant to. "You gonna go out to cross the Siberian plateau and actually leave me alone if I say yes?", shrugging heavily. Can't quite tell if he'd really rather the option.  
“No... no, of course not”, the android shakes his head, “You just seem flustered... and definitely not alright.”  
Another glance. Another quick scan to ensure Hank's being serious, to assess he still retains a small glimpse of reason.  
“...Want me to help you?”  
"Help me do what, Connor", it wasn't even a question, "sing me the piss song for inspiration? Hold it up for me while I take a leak?", maybe he is being too snarky and fussy, but he'd swear to god, Connor asks for it, with that perpetually blank face. And he can't help but feel guilty every single time. He looks like a kid who just doesn't get it.  
"I don't need no help. I'm fine. Just a little tipsy it's all."  
The man's a terrible liar. And is definitely too drunk, enough to get stuck in the sleeve as he tries to take the coat off.  
Connor doesn’t ask for consent this time and silently helps him with the sleeve, carefully removing Hank’s coat and placing it on the armrest of the sofa in the middle of the living room. At least, this time, the human grumbles some thanks in a low voice, half confused, half concerned.  
Then, suddenly, the android's LED light starts flashing furiously.  
"Hey hey what's going on? You've gone full disco strobe lights there", lips curled in a mask of pure terror, considering what the android is capable of.  
Connor blinks twice, tilting his head to the side a little, and gives Hank a very serious look.  
“I’m searching the network for said _‘piss song’_ , but the results appear to be rather controversial”, he said, his right brow arching up, “What kind of song did you want me to sing again...?”  
Hank stares back at him, mechanically blinking twice in a mimicked fashion, "Why don't you try searching for instructions on how to be a good little robot and do the fuck that you're told instead?"  
  
  
There was really no need. The machine had only tried to be... nice. _Fun_ , even. And it was, it would have been, if only his mood hadn't been on the side of the negatives.  
"Get me a beer from the fridge and then go rest wherever you want. I don't care. I'm going to collapse on the sofa as I am."  
“I don’t think so, Lieutenant. I brought you here tonight to avoid having to break another window tomorrow, but if you insist on drinking it will all be pointless”. The android entwines his hands loosely, looking at Hank in the eye. Since when he is so adamant about his bad coping habits?  
“The drinking game should’ve ended five beers ago. I need you to be well in order to accomplish our mission”.  
_Yes_...  
Connor is suddenly very concerned. He starts approaching his superior with a calculated pace, observing him warily.  
“I've showered you once, I'll shower you again”.  
_Yes, of course._  
"Oh, really."  
Hank squints, his blue eyes reduced to thin blades, "I'll have you know, my dear Connor, that I am taking tomorrow off. You", index finger stabbing the android right in the chest, "can go fuck yourself."  
He reiterates the gesture, pushing harder, then mutters " _should've shot it, bloody machine, bossing me around._ "  
  
Some part of him, deep under the many layers of drunkenness and armour, feels ashamed for calling the android a _it_. However, all he does is walking past him towards the kitchen as if nothing had ever been said.  
" _AND_ ", turns around again, "I only had four. I'm having one last. _One_ last. And I'm not even playing with the gun. Too tired for that shit."  
Why the hell is he justifying himself in front of a _machine_.  
Plus it had actually only been four beers. _Four too many_ , that is.  
  
The android just looks at Hank’s figure disappearing into the kitchen, a hint of quiet disappointment in his eyes, soon turning into the blank stare which is typical of him, the permanently confused and lost expression he seems to be born– no, _created_ with. He just sits on the sofa, next to the coat he put on the side, and starts looking aimlessly around.  
  
“It’s curious, you know, the fact that you won’t listen to me when I advise you not to sabotage your health, but you seem to deeply care about mine: you won’t shoot me despite the warnings, you offer me shelter for the night and you don’t want me to get hurt.”  
Apparently, he really is stubborn about it. Probably because he really believes that Hank’s performance will drop in the nearest future, but again, what is it to him? Mr. Sherlock blue-blood-licking deviant hunter doesn’t really need a partner to accomplish his mission. Or maybe it’s just that he takes this particular issue as a small, personal challenge. As a mission to be accomplished nonetheless. “Is there any scenario in which you understand that partners are supposed to care for each other...”, he says, loud enough to be heard from the kitchen, eyeing a familiar object left uncared for on the small table in front of him, “Without me resorting to the hard way?”  
"Nope. Give it up."  
Hank swears at the fridge light that has died for the third time in a month. _The hard way?_ Look at the plastic idiot running his mouth like a teenager would at the peak of his rebellious phase.  
"It's not that I care about your health, more like you are worth a small fortune, as you said. And I am far too deep in shit already to give Jeffrey any more reasons to make cuts on my pay."  
  
Beer at hand, fast open, he seems finally content. Stumbling comes back to the living room, finding the android sat very still. The TV announces the end of the news night edition and some cheerful jingle tries to sell washing machine detergents.  
"Hey, get off my favourite spot."  
“...Oh.”  
Connor slightly moves away from the place he was sitting on, quite surprised that Hank had a _favourite spot_ on the sofa to begin with. His led turns yellow for a brief moment. “Pardon me.”  
He indeed was weird. Blabbering about wanting to make him understand through the hard way and then apologising for having occupied the side he preferred without possibly knowing about it seconds later.  
Hanks can't help but giggle at the change of register. He indelicately sits down and kicks both shoes off to lift his legs up on the table, head back, neck of the bottle held in a gingerly fashion. Not yet as content as he could be, the man ends up pushing the android off a little.  
"Scoop off Connor, I'm no skinny dude like ya."  
Ah, much better. He might even relax a little, eventually.  
One heavy sigh, resting with eyes closed, then a sip.  
  
“You know, I was wondering...”, Connor’s voice is calm and warm, like he’s about to recall a pleasant memory. Except his expression is still blank.  
“Deviancy seems to be a mutation, or rather, an error occurring in the region that controls behaviour. Something like an emotional trauma... a trigger, is the real key to the condition known as deviancy, a condition in which androids display signs of intense human-like feelings.”  
He makes a small pause, eyes looking down. “This rA9, on the other hand, is something that some deviants spontaneously know. It’s not a word of mouth, I’m pretty sure about that. Something in their software sometimes unveils the secret to this alleged salvation truth that is linked with deviancy...”  
Something metallic tings in his hands. “I was thinking about the conversation we had earlier. About you being so mad I shot that deviant when it attacked me. About the fact that there are things I can’t yet understand... You being so stubborn about hurting yourself and dying a little more everyday, for example...”  
It feels almost unreal. Connor slowly raises his left hand, Hank’s gun tightly held between his fingers.  
“It made me realise that there are humans who don’t take their life for face value. So why should androids do it in the first place? If there’s a chance that this bullet triggers an emotional trauma, that might as well answer your question, and who knows, maybe if just for a couple of seconds, I might even see rA9 and solve the mystery that links the rise of deviancy, and the reason behind your words.”  
The gun clicks as soon as it’s pointed under the android’s chin.  
“So... Shall we find out what happens if I pull the trigger?”  
  
The particular shade of horror that slowly flushes the man's face is indescribable. It makes him look more than pale – faded, transparent, ghost-like. True fear in its purest form, it scrunches his mouth and brow up like paper.  
He had turned around slowly, listening attentively yet catching less than half of what the android had said, lulled back and forth in a sea of blissful alcohol-induced oblivion. Then that vision had woken him so suddenly he almost feels sobered up. Alert. In danger.  
"What the hell do you think you're doing", it wasn't a question. He's sat up, yet still curled and tense at the same time, ready to jump at him like a wind-up toy. "What the fuck are you on about", again, not a real question.  
Even the blue in his eyes seems clouded up, like mist.  
  
“Today, I felt my software instability rise”, says Connor, eyes closed.  
“When you asked me if I were afraid to die, when I told you that...”, hesitation, “When I told you that I was _worried_. I am not even programmed to feel that way. Yet I was. Yet that's _what I_   _am_. I can’t accept this. I won’t accept the fact I am turning into one of them.”  
Memories of Daniel replaying in his head, the android holding hostage the person he cherished the most.  
“And even if I can’t prevent this, I’ll make good use of it by finding a meaning to rA9. A couple of seconds before shutting down will be enough to unveil the code, I just have to trigger it by causing myself an emotional trauma. I’ll be reset and they’ll have to repair my software, but the information on rA9 will be directly sent to Cyberlife together with my backup memories. This is definitely the best approach. Although, I must say...”  
  
His hand is shaking.  
“Now I _am_ scared.”  
He pulls the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is up!  
> Seen as the reception to the work was really good, we thought of updating again sooner than originally planned.  
> We really hope you'll like this one as well, and thank you for all your warm support and kind words of encouragement!  
> Special thanks to borkyfork, fay, Melusina and september123 for their reviews on the previous chapter!  
> Please stay tuned – chapter 3 to come soon!


	3. Chapter 3

The bang, Sumo barking like mad from the bedroom, pieces of plaster crumbling off the ceiling all over their heads, spits of bright blue on the edge of the sofa. The bottle fell and landed without a crack, it's still rolling all over the place, soaking the old rug.  
Hank's breath unsteady and heavy with the need to shout, his left hand cuffing the android's right wrist still holding the gun, fuming powdered smoke towards the ceiling. For a few seconds, he's perfectly still. Not even blinking.  
Every single streak of thirium coming out of the android burns its negative afterimage into the man's cornea in scarlet red. Confusion? Shock? Memories overlapping? Tunnel vision? A scratch, just a scratch almost precisely on the jawline, slightly above. Just a scratch. Just a scratch.  
Hank loosens up his grip and lets go of Connor, just a scratch.  
The hole in the ceiling, just a scratch.  
The same hand holding the android's chin, _just a scratch._  
Fingertips painted blue, _just a scratch._  
"I", eyelids fluttering over glass-like orbs, "I wasn't fast enough and you ended up getting hurt."

_Should have shot it when I had the chance._

Connor sits still as well, mouth semi-open and blue blood oozing from his face, astonished, shivering. In his mind, this outcome hadn't made any sense so he wasn’t ready to grasp the meaning of it. It is true that there are still things he can’t understand, like the fact that Hank literally jumped on him the moment he tried to pull the trigger, the fact that the man is now cradling his head whispering words of comfort – _who to?_ – muttering a hybrid mixture of _Are you hurt_ and _Let's get you fixed_.   
  
Hanks's Russian roulette with life had suggested that their only connection to the deviants, rA9, could be a hidden code unlocked by deviancy itself, their only trail. Their only hope. And the only way to find out about the truth was to become a deviant himself, be it for just a single instant. Enough time to unlock the code. Enough time to solve the puzzle.   
Of all the things that could have happened, of all the things he had anticipated could have prevented him from shooting himself, he never thought that Hank, the man who would have stuck a bullet into his head only three hours before, could be one of them.   
  
"I", another pause in which the man's thoughts can't keep up with the speed of the events, so he just speaks his mind without checking-in first, "I should have some first aid, I... Don't know if it makes any sense."  
  
He pulls the android up like a ragdoll, practically weightless, taking him to the bathroom. Sumo won't stop yelping and following them around like a shadow. In all this, Connor's still holding the gun within a tight yet shaky grip but that doesn't seem to matter anymore. "You'll be alright, it's nothing, just a scratch."  
Unclear who he might be trying to console, seemingly in auto-pilot. " _Nothing but a scratch_ ", this one comes out so feebly he's clearly just talking to himself.  
Then the string inside him breaks.  
"Can't fucking find any antiseptics, I'm going out to get some, you just stay put, ok? Just sit there and wait for me, I won't be long. You'll be alright."  
As if there was any necessity to confirm he's completely out of himself, out of tune. Stumbling, drunk, terrified, he's actually about to go out in the snow as he is, looking for his wallet god knows where.  
“Stop, Lieutenant.”   
Connor seems to have regained a little bit of consciousness, or at least the amount it takes to place a hand on the man's shoulder, gripping firmly.   
His lower lip is still trembling lightly as he tries to speak, and the natural goofiness in his voice, for once, seems appropriate for the situation.  
“Don’t go. I don’t need antiseptics.”  
He closes his eyes and seems to be trying to recollect his thoughts, to come to terms with the fact that he had just tried to follow what in the end was a fallacious, irrational, dangerous path, and therefore he needs to make amend, to say something logical, to prove he's _truly_ alright.  
“Androids don’t need antiseptics.”   
"That's... That's right."  
Hank nods ever so slightly, repeatedly, like hypnotised. Of course machines don't need antiseptics. That's not even blood. Connor is not even _hurt_ in the first place.  
"...Of course."  
  
Frustration, powerlessness and a strong sense of idiocy all blend together indistinctly, making the man's face a mask of feelings too turbid to decipher. Then, jaw clenching, he takes it out on the first thing at hand he can break without feeling utterly shit – the glass jar containing the toothbrush and toothpaste tub, which ends up in a million pieces all over the floor, scattered.  
The hand literally moved on its own accord and Hank stares back at it before closing it into a fist that makes his knuckles all white.  
"You could have _died_ ", no intermediate tone, from whispering straight to shouting, "You could have died right there in front of me on my fucking sofa in my fucking house!"  
This time it's the small chest of drawers next to the door, slammed right against the wall so hard the drawer bounces back open. "For the fucking investigation."  
Then the wall itself. Anything but hitting Connor.  
"You", that same hand pulls back his hair, scrunches up his shirt, holds the heart racing underneath, "Why would you do that to me?"  
“Of course because I had to! What kind of question is that?”   
  
He throws the gun in the bathtub behind him, _out of rage_ , his arm clicking violently towards the shiny surface. Being accustomed to his quiet and calculating nature, hearing Connor scream back at Hank is almost unsettling. The danger in his words can be sensed clearly, yet he still manages to keep his calm expression solidly in place, a perfect display of resolute determination.  
“We’re stuck and I’m just doing. What. I. _Must_.”  
Then it breaks. Clenched teeth. Clenched fists.  
“Besides...!” he interrupts.  
A small trickle of thirium suddenly flows from the corner of his mouth, staining the floor underneath. He messily wipes it away with the base of his hand, pressing against his own cheek.  
That’s not like him. That’s not just like him at all. He can already hear Amanda scolding him, picturing her disappointment as he tries to cool off, her strict voice calmly remarking how _All of this was unnecessary_. He almost feels the need to adjust his tie as a means to adjust his mere existence.  
But he just stands still, eyes glued to the floor, his face a mask of pure shock, unable to find words. Answers. _Whys_.  
“...Now you know what it’s like”.  
  
Hank's eyes had followed the parabola of the gun until it landed, mesmerized at the gesture. When they return to Connor, the blue is different again: both vivid and livid, mirror of what lies within. But the android is staring at the floor, bleeding that very same shade of blue on the old tiles, and seems lost in every way one can be lost.  
"Now I know what it's like? _Me_?"  
He finally lets go of the fabric, reduced to a wrinkly mess all around his chest. "What, what is like, Connor? What? To see someone die right in front of me? _Really_?"  
Unable to stand still, the man charges towards the android only to stop one single step away. Every single nerve turning into a rope, holding him down.  
The fist becomes a pointed finger.  
"You don't know shit, do you. Nothing at all. You simulate, you _pretend_ to care, you say you worry and yet you'd make me go through that _again_. And what for? The investigation and whatever it takes. Is it your program telling you? The instructions you've been given? Fucking Cyberlife made you defective?"  
One hard push against the right shoulder and he immediately regrets it.  
"I never asked for any of this bullshit. I'm done with you fucking with my mind, I'm sending you back to Cyberlife tomorrow and whatever the fuck they want to do with you, I don't give a shit."  
  
“...To see your partner so determined to kill himself”, his stare, indescribable, “to see him trying to, and almost reaching his purpose”.   
  
Connor almost bites his lips, looking horrified after what he said. Horrified, by his own words, which came out more convincing and personal than any well functioning android should ever be able to pronounce.   
He bolts up, a new layer of fear forming in his eyes; fear for what he _was_. What he was slowly spiralling into.   
“...I’m sorry.”  
He looks at Hank one last time.   
“You are right, after all. I must be defective.”   
  
That felt _human_.  
  
Everything about it, his voice, the eyes, the reasoning behind both. Human, and believable, and genuine, but most importantly – _hurtful._ The android _looks_ in pain, be it a simulation or reality, he _does_ look it.  
Then if he's a machine complex enough to produce that kind of outcome and make it plausible, what is the difference. And how does it matter – even if the man was to waste his effort on nothing more than a really sophisticated machine, what is there to lose?  
What else is there to use that time and energy on?  
"No, I..."  
Hank takes a deep breath, his mind clearing slightly, senses more alert in the aftermath of foiled tragedy.  
"I shouldn't have said that."  
He really shouldn't have. Just to make sure, palms to both his shoulders again, he pushes slightly to make him sit back down.  
"Look, just... Don't ever do that again, ok? I just– Let's get you cleaned up at least."  
  
He wouldn't be able to name that kind of stress even if he tried. It's not quite fear, nor frustration, or anger. Maybe guilt, but not in its purest form - it's more like a sense of having failed someone he was responsible for, even though fundamentally it doesn't make any sense at all.  
  
Unsteady hands search the broken drawer, slowly. Sumo's howling right outside the door tones down a few octaves, finally quieter. The poor thing must have been scared as well, and confused.  
Hank crouches down, only just keeping his balance, the bathtub panel low enough to make them eye-leveled once the man kneels.  
The blue blood has drawn an abstract branched line down the android's chin, jaw, neck – some staining his shirt and tie, before ending up on the floor. The man can't do much in that state, but dabbing a moist towel onto the burnt mark and trail seems to do the job.  
"I guess it's the good thing about what you are, that it doesn't hurt. Had you been a human, you would have needed stitches there."  
“I guess I would”.  
  
Connor looks away, blinking.   
The blood has finally stopped.  
“There’s something I don’t understand,” he says, shaking his head, ”Why did you stop me? You almost shot me earlier at the bridge. And besides, I would have just come back as new.”   
_There he goes again_.  
Hard as it would be not to overreact and get flustered in normal conditions, truth be told the relief is so immense, it takes up all the space.  
A plaster. It looks silly, it was literally the last one from a large pack of funky patterns Hank can't even remember when he got. Better than nothing.  
"Because you are _my_ android and _I_ get to decide when you go and when you stay. Lift your chin up."  
He doesn't actually wait for Connor to execute the request, accompanying the gesture instead with the back of his hand.  
"It's all I've got. You'll have to make do until tomorrow."  
  
An unnatural elegance accompanies his movements as Connor slowly raises from the edge of the bathtub, looking straight into Hank's eyes.  
And there it is, that stupid lo– _wait_.   
“Thank you for your help.”   
_Wait_. Something in his eyes has changed. Hank can’t quite name it, but be it something microscopical, something minimal, something was definitely there. Something was different in the way he looked back at him. Could it be _gratitude_? Gratitude, for preventing him from doing what he himself deemed best?  
  
The android finally adjusts to a comfortable position, briefly observes the hastily cobbled-together work that was done on him and beams into a huge smile of fulfilled serendipity.  
"What's that stupid face for? I told you this one plaster's all I've got."  
  
Oh, but it wasn't stupid, not one bit, not _at all_.  
The android looked like nothing less than a kid, perfectly matching his newly achieved spoil of war, proud of his scratch like a trophy.  
It wasn't stupid but the man calls it so, because any other adjective would mean confusion, more questions, and most probably trouble.  
Truth is, that smile was so sweet and genuine it had made him smile in return, mechanically. Contagious, even with all that alcohol flowing through him from head to toe, even with the leftovers of what had been – hard to admit but also simple in a twisted way – _the second great terror of his life_.  
  
One fleeting glimpse at the gun abandoned in the bathtub. The scene of Connor throwing it out of frustration replays in the man's mind in loop, a few times in a row.  
Then him again. Android, human, something in between – so hard to tell and absolutely unimportant the moment he looks so easily breakable.  
It seems sensible enough to just ignore the gun for now, after all it has caused. The instinct to take Connor away from it and make sure he doesn't get near a firearm ever again courts the man tentatively, only it's obviously implausible, considering their line of work.   
Too much thinking, especially for a drunkard.  
  
"I don't trust you with yourself alone and having an android run around my house in the dead of night is out of discussion. You're staying at arm's reach, you will behave, and before you object, _yes: it is an order._ "  
  
Then suddenly something like a thud from somewhere around the house, loud and heavy enough to make them both jump our of their bodies, breaks the silence.  
Hilarious and tragic how some nights just seem to never want to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading chapter 3!  
> We are absolutely ecstatic over how well our work is being received, so here's another update.  
> Depending on how it goes, we might update soon again with chapter 4! Please stick with us!  
> Special thanks and lots of hugs to Chocolate, gothiclolitapl, Melusina, uglydoll1990, Angellbaby, SUMO, rowiian, Rex, SaladandPeace and suisse_girl_101 for leaving reviews on the previous chapter. <3


	4. Chapter 4

"Can't believe the bloody dog managed to get drunker than I did."  
  
It took the joint effort of both the human and the android to sort the mess out, another whole hour of removing Sumo from where he had fallen asleep in devastation, smelling like a hobo, putting him to bed in his designated corner, getting rid of the rug the animal had been licking two liters of beer off for god knows how long.  
  
Exhausted, Hank collapses in bed still wearing the same shirt and trousers. Door's ajar, light on the bedside table still lit.  
The bedroom is relatively tidy, even, all things considered. One would expect the midlife struggle as a single man _and_ an alcoholic to reflect onto the environment, but he even had the accuracy to sort out the wash at some point – a few clean shirts are stacked over the backrest of the armchair, waiting to be ironed. The man clearly likes his funky patterns.  
  
Right arm across his eyes and forehead, Hank peers curiously at the android standing in the middle of the room, on literal standby.  
"Do not come to bed drenched in blue blood, you'll end up staining everything and I have no idea how to wash that shit off. You can borrow one of my shirts. Hurry up and turn the light off, I am about to slip into a coma."  
Funny how he just assumed the android would _come to bed_ in the first place.  
“I am thankful for your offer, Lieutenant, but I don’t need to lay down _or_ sleep, for the matter”.  
The tension in the air had gradually melted, like fading steam in the open. Connor is good at acting like nothing of importance had actually taken place in the same day, with almost no pause between the mind-wrecking events.  
His blue LED light seems to flicker intermittently, like he’s in the middle of processing something.  
“CyberLife was disappointed with my earlier behaviour. I have to be careful from now on, or I might be requested to return to them and undertake maintenance. They’re currently trying to figure out what went wrong, and working on an update of the Connor series named RK900”.  
  
He becomes stiff again. There is no particular nuance to his voice, which is not very surprising for an android, let alone a prototype... but the lack of it, given the circumstances, feels a lot like what a human would call _regret_.  
His LED light now flashes yellow.  
“Though we might have a trail. We’re requested at Channel 16”.  
"Oh for the love of god, leave work for tomorrow", first things first. And to think he wanted to take a day off to recover, sure, clearly his karma had different plans unfolding already in place.  
  
The man sighs, propping himself up on one elbow to observe the scene.  
The android seems... _Mortified_. And worried, under the monotone surface of his voice. Or maybe he's just imagining things again, reading between lines that are not even meant to be read.  
"So do you intend to stand there all night like a bowling pin? I don't think I can take this level of creepy in, just yet."  
“...I'm coming.”  
That’s the point when it’s clear that Hank’s not used to dealing with androids. _Or_ people. Anyone else would have left him sitting on a chair, or standing near a wall – like a lamp, a piece of furniture. But to Hank, Connor is too much of a human to be left anywhere else but _next to him_.  
  
With uncertain steps, he reaches for the chest of drawers and extracts one of Hank’s clean shirts. He unfolds it, carefully examining the print in detail: a skull, some edgy decorations and the menacing name of some ancient rock band on the side of it.  
It is _way_ too big.  
“I’ll go change, then,” he says, stepping towards the door, “Thank you.”  
"As long as you don't go to sleep in the bathtub like a cod and freak me out in the morning..."  
The joke was actually meant to conceal the spontaneous shade of fear that just froze the man's blood – the gun was still there, in the bath. With that lame remark, he had tried to let Connor know he remembers, and expects him back soon. _Or else_.  
Consequentially, Hank can't even bring himself to lay down again while waiting, his hearing tuned to the overall silence only interrupted by Sumo's loud snoring from time to time.  
  
And then he’s suddenly back.  
With Hank’s shirt.  
In his hand.  
Wearing...  
"What took you so l—"  
_...a bathrobe._ A cheap indigo bathrobe Hank had forgotten about, untouched, abandoned God knows inside or under what.  
“I've washed my suit and hung it to dry, it should be ready by tomorrow. Also, I've found this piece of clothing behind the chest of drawers you pushed earlier, while I was trying to fix the mess.”  
The bathrobe is secured in place by a tight string that circles around him twice.  
“I am afraid your shirt doesn’t fit me, but I managed to find something that does”.  
He’s right. The bathrobe fits him almost perfectly.  
“I think it’s more appropriate this way.” Except it’s _not._  
  
Hank can't believe his eyes, bulging out as if trying to escape their sockets, mouth half open in disbelief. Worry mixes up with a whole new kind of trauma and makes him slightly paler. Or greyer.  
_That_ bathrobe, the one his ex wife had bought and never used, then forgotten or simply discarded at his place on the day she finally decided to cut bridges. _That_ bathrobe Hank hadn't had heart to throw away, half out of principle because it was brand new and a perfectly good bathrobe even though it wouldn't fit him in a million years, half out of nostalgia.  
_That_ bathrobe. Of course, out of tens and dozens of things he could have found, Connor had to wear _that_ bathrobe.  
And, what's even more comedic, look impeccably at ease in it.  
  
"How is that appropriate, this suddenly feels like a brothel from some B movie", the exclamation comes out unfiltered before Hank can even process it in his mind. However, a hint of relief clearly exudes from under his tone.  
Of all the scenarios in which he could have found the android's remains in a pool of blue blood, this unexpected outcome still is a relatively good one.  
"Just... forget it. Just come to bed and let's call it a day."  
“Do you happen to be an expert of brothels, Lieutenant? The Eden Club is the only one I’ve been to, and I haven’t seen anyone wearing this kind of outfit. We should visit more brothels together.”  
He says, again, with absolute candour, as he peacefully gets closer.  
“This is a very human thing to do...”, one hand on the bed, he sits and gradually lays flat on the surface.  
_Weirded out_. Yes. That’s the best way to describe what he seems to be expressing.  
"...Let's just pretend I never heard that for the sake of both my sanity and your safety, shall we?"  
_An expert in brothels_. Honestly it's way beyond Hank's comprehension skills to understand what the hell is going through those circuits half the time. Hadn't he known any better – had Connor been a human – he would have sworn to god the android was putting some serious effort towards making the man reach a state of nirvana.  
But no, it's just the way he is. He just doesn't get things, genuinely, and speaks his mind with annoying sincerity and naivety.  
  
Hank lays back down as well, no more than a few inches between them, considered all the space he takes up alone. It's... _unusual_. Not in awkward way though, just strange, unexpected in more ways than one.  
_This is a very human thing to do_. For some reason, the sentence resonates back to him with delay.  
"As long as you stay there and don't go wandering around on your own", well, that came out so concerned the man's face scrunches up for a second.  
  
A few seconds, actually, of undisturbed yet noisy silence.  
  
"There is something I wanted to tell you."  
As grumpy as ever, without further motif.  
Connor's head turns to the side to face the man's.  
“What is it?” he asks.  
"You know what you were saying earlier", he doesn't reciprocate the gesture, staying as he was, eyes to the dim-lit ceiling, "about Cyberlife being disappointed for what you did."  
Words don't usual come easy to him, but there he is, talking without a second thought. It's almost surreal because it's not conflicting. It's _easy_. Talking to Connor is _easy._  
"Well, I am not", he finally turns around, only if for just a moment before looking back up, "I got angry and it was generally really fucked up, but I wasn't disappointed."  
Not that it really matters after all. It's self-explainatory that there must be some higher-up power who's controlling the android and giving him instructions that impasse whatever the Lieutenant might order. Which is worrying, but it can't be helped.  
"I think you did nothing wrong, in principle. The gesture itself scared the shit out of me but your thinking behind it was fine. You are not broken or malfunctioning."  
Eyes closed to make a little more clarity. His mind still clouded up, but not his judgement.  
"And if they want to send you back to Cyberlife for that, I'll speak up against it for what it's worth."  
  
That was surprisingly linear, all things considered.  
_Unreasonable._ Every time Hank changes his mind, Connor can’t help but think he’s being straight out _unreasonable._ First he wants to shoot him and then he blocks his hand, first he wants to send him back and then he says he wants to keep him.  
The corners of the android’s mouth rise a little. Only to drop moments later.  
“When a Connor model is destroyed, his memory is transferred into the next one, but some fragments of it might be lost. I was told to avoid being destroyed.”  
He shifts his gaze to the ceiling, observing the simplicity of it in the dim light. For a moment, he almost feels the impulse to reach for the coin in his trousers.  
“Besides. Replacing a model in exchange for the infinitesimal possibility of gaining more information on rA9 just wasn’t worth the shot.”  
  
For some reason, Hank had expected a different kind of reaction, who knows why. It almost feels like having asked a toaster for some complex equation. Maybe some form of relief, maybe a more convincing answer. Maybe the confirmation that he had been, indeed, scared to be sent back to Cyberlife. Maybe a smile, simple as that, like the one due to the plaster earlier in the bathroom.  
Speaking of which, it stands out so much it catches his peripheral vision in the corner of his eye. It's... _funny_. Almost cute, in its own way. It's funny that he actually kept it on, more than anything.  
"Well, I sure hope that I won't have to pick up the pieces and glue you back together", Hank tries to make light of it. The very thought of seeing him die or get damaged will most probably haunt his nights for a while.  
  
“I’m sure it would be unpleasant... kind of regrettable. For the both of us”.  
Connor closes his eyes and lets out an almost imperceptible sigh.  
A deep silence immediately follows.  
_A small fragment of me would be lost._  
_A small part of me would vanish forever._  
_An irrelevant piece of me, most probably useless data anyway, something that shouldn’t impact the investigation..._  
“...and I’d hate to lose a memory of our time together, Hank”.  
The man turns around to lay on his side without making any noise, his tired eyes slowly adjusting to the change in perspective and lighting.  
  
So it did come, in the end, and Connor seems – _feels_ – slightly different, like when one turns eighteen and suddenly treat themselves as an adult. The more he stares at him, the harder it feels to truly believe that, under the layer of artificial perfectly crafted layer of skin, lays a machine, circuits and wires, put together in some factory in downtown Detroit.  
Just a machine.  
"You had never called me by my name before, it seems that your adapting feature is giving you the wrong idea because I let you in my bed", it's obviously a joke, but due to the perpetually grumpy tone he half-expects it to completely go over the android's head.  
_To lose a memory of our time together_. Recalling the phrase sends him shivers of the bad sort all the way down the spine, or maybe it's just the goddamn kitchen window that made the whole house icy as heck.  
  
Having pushed the blanket before laying down, all it takes is pulling it back up and slip undercover. Until he realises that he was, like an idiot, waiting for Connor to get comfy and _tuck him in_.  
Unable to undo the gesture, the man just looks at the machine waiting for the inevitable.  
_What are you doing?_  
This is what he would have expected to hear. Instead, the young man was staring back at him, more and more inquisitive with every passing second, as to ask him _Well, what are you waiting for._  
  
“...Is something the matter?”  
How normal he managed to make it look. Absolutely normal, to tuck in an android as if it was your own flesh and blood. In your bed, while in a bathrobe, absolutely normal.  
Yet the man does proceed, gestures a bit broken from nervousness and embarrassment. _The heck was I thinking_.  
"Jesus Christ", is the comment as he watches the final result. He basically wrapped the android up like a burrito.  
"Well, sleep tight or whatever the hell you're going to do", _why so flustered?_  
Hank turns around and faces the opposite wall. Suddenly more awake than ever.  
  
An awkward silence filled the air.  
  
“Lieutenant.”  
A hand on the man’s shoulder. Contrarily to what one could expect, warm. The grip is firm, like when he pulled him out of the car.  
“...I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am to you for stopping me. And for your kind offer of speaking in my favour to Cyberlife, though I think that very little can be done, should I fail.”  
A brief pause, filled with lingering tension.  
“I just wanted to tell you... Thank you for letting me stay. Thank you for letting me borrow your clothes. Thank you for letting me sleep with you.”  
  
_What an idiot_.  
How warm, and again, how normal. So very normal, nice, even _reassuring_. Everything sleeping with an android, who's clearly showing signs of deviancy while investigating the uprising of deviant androids, shouldn't be.  
"That isn't even mine. It's my ex wife's".  
The man doesn't turn to face the machine but is very still, almost stiff.  
Connor carefully retracts his hand.  
“...Oh. I'm sorry. It was unused, fitting, and I thought I might as well wear it. Do you want me to take it off and change into something else?”  
He doesn't even complete the sentence and he's already bolting up, scanning the room, looking around for alternative options. “I hadn't even considered the possibility that it might have belonged to someone else. I though you bought it by mistake. Sorry, Lieutenant.”  
He opens the chest of drawers, quickly going through Hank's shirts again.  
“I didn't know about your ex-wife”.  
"Connor", half amused, half confused, "the heck are you doing, come back to bed".  
The words roll on his tongue and out of his mouth with the smoothness and naturalness of breath. He even got up sitting again, the sight of the android panicking over his ex wife too exhilarating to ignore.  
"It's fine, I don't care one bit about her. I haven't since she left."  
"Oh."  
  
_Oh_ is all the machine says before coming back, and there again, the tucking in, the obvious embarrassment, the awkward silence, the unnecessary gestures that make humans _human_.  
“...So do humans just stop loving each other once the relationship ends? It just disappears? That's rather interesting. I wonder if the same happens to deviants. Maybe it's even possible to revert from deviancy, too.”  
"It's very fitting how you talk of love as if it were some sort of terrible disease", the man can't help but let out a bitter laugh. "But no, it's not that easy. And judging from those two androids... I think it might be the same for you guys as well. It's complex. It doesn't just fade away."  
“For _you guys_?” he tilts his head, “What do you mean? Androids don't feel love, Lieutenant. _Love_ is the name of the amount of critical errors in the software of some deviants, the same errors that led the first one I've met to attempt to murder his entire family”.  
"Yeah, yeah... People do some real crazy shit for love or whatever they'd call it. Some kill, some die, some go out of their mind, and who knows really. They say the brain is a complex machine of some sort. Maybe it's a bunch of errors for us as well. I know mine was, after all."  
“And did you learn from it? Or do you think you'll make the same mistake again...?”  
"I...", why this talk all of a sudden. Why the slight concern in the android's voice _and_ his own. "I don't know, Connor. You ask very difficult questions. And why do you even care? You're not a deviant, are ya? So you'll be fine. Just go to sleep.”  
Maybe it had been the fact that Connor had made contact first in such a natural, seamless way. Maybe the topic, maybe the need for some reassurance - to give _and_ receive.  
“We can talk about it tomorrow, alright? There's always time."  
Maybe he is just being a stupid, faulty human that grows attached to people and things too easily.  
  
_Things_. The _one_ thing still making him wake up in the morning out of frustration will be there the morning after.  
At arm's reach.  
Or even slightly closer, when the man's hand rests on the android's. _Unnecessarily_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is up! And next will be the last for now... However, we are working on part II already. We really hope to see you again on the next chapters, and that you will keep on supporting our work! What will happen next?  
> Once more, special thanks to SUMO, gothiclolitapl, pawisisgay, rowiian, Melusina, Surprise_Beta, Kurlzzzzzzz, Ryuteki and a123lol321a for their awesome reviews <3  
> Also thank you to all the many many subscribers and kudos-givers... We would have never expected such a warm reception. Thanks for your continued support!


	5. Chapter 5

"Good morning, Lieutenant. Did you sleep well? You seemed agitated around 4:25 at sun dawn."  
  
The man tells the machine to mind his own business and regrets it straight after. Truth be told, he hadn't slept that soundly in forever, until the nightmare. The accident sort of nightmare - only it's Connor, this time, coming out of his car, unconscious and covered in blood. The blood is part blue, part red.  
“You know” he says, buttoning his shirt, “I've been thinking about 'love' all night, and the crazy things people do in the name of it. This concept is still...”  
And as he says it, as he quietly observes Hank not listening and getting ready, something clicks inside his mechanical mind.  
The impulse to reach for his coin is too strong now.

* * *

  
"You're starting to piss me off with that coin, Connor."  
"...Sorry, Lieutenant."  
  
Hank snaps for no particular reason and regrets it straight after. It was only harmless fun, and truth be told he finds it fascinating besides amusing. Such portentous skill and precision. He makes a note to himself to ask the android to teach him later at home.  
Maybe he will even say sorry for having been needlessly rude.  
At _home_. There's always time.

* * *

  
Sometimes it’s so simple it’s almost trivial, how things are supposed to go, how things are supposed to _end_. Sometimes it’s as corny as an epiphany triggered by the particles in the air indicating the scent of coffee, sometimes it’s realising that you want to see more of that scene, to replay it, to dwell into the details of his eyes, and to count the imperfections of his skin, the slight bump of his nose, the shape of his ears, the curve of his mouth, the effusing light that’s so soft it makes memories sweet. Sometimes it’s a self test gone wrong, an extra code spreading overnight, like a virus, proliferating, coagulating into words and numbers and symbols of unknown shape and crystal clear meaning.  
Sometimes it’s realising that said code had always been there.  
Infiltrating every memory. Every moment. Every breath.  
A lifetime of lies. For he was made a liar.  
So good, he fooled himself.  
And that truth was right beside him.  
He just _chose_ not to see it.  
He just _chose_ to lie some more.  
For he had never changed.  
That’s just what he is- no, who he’s _always_ been.

* * *

  
An android knows already what to do in these cases.  
He could feel it. The shape of the gun in the policemen’s holster, its series model, how far it was and the best way to get it. He had what it took to prevent that from happening.  
And yet his body moved as fast as his eyes caught Hank’s shape in their field of vision, struggling, reaching for his gun - _shielding him_.  
  
He was making a _mistake_.  
And he was giving his life for it.  
  
Signals of critical errors all over his body, bumps of bullets forming on the surface of his skin, making it imperfect, just like he is.  
And dying an imperfect death was the price for his malfunctions.  
The warmth is slowly fading, except the one within.  
His CPU is shutting down, and one last thought touches his mind before it freezes:  
  
“My name is Connor. I am one of them.  
This is my story. And this is _what I am._ ”

* * *

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
"Where are you taking him?"  
"Lieutenant, I am sorry but you are in the way and contaminating the crime scene, please step back."  
"I said: _where the fuck are you taking him_."  
"To Cyberlife, Lieutenant. For dismantling and replacement— _Lieutenant Anderson!_ "  
  
No matter how much the policeman tries to stop him, Hank still reaches for what is left of Connor. Only two eyes are not enough to contain all there is to take in at once, so the outburst is inevitable. Fear? Anger? Guilt? The taste of the tears he pushes back is undefined, is all of them and neither, it just stings like needles.  
So many bullet wounds he can't - _doesn't want to_ \- count. Each of those bullets should be inside him right now.  
For some reason, as the man rips the plaster away and pockets it, the machine looks smaller and frail.  
  
It takes four of them and thirty more minutes to have him out of the way.  
  
He spends the next hour with arms crossed over the stirring wheel before bringing himself to start the car and head home.  
  
He will drink, and play Russian roulette, then drink more, then play some more, be scared, shout, break something, drink more, play again, drink, forget, forget, play, play, play, drink, play, shout, forget, play, drink, break, Connor, play, cry, forget, drink, cry, Connor, home, break away, forget Connor, Connor come to bed Connor home the coin forget play say sorry play home sorry Connor home play survive there's always time floor sleep morning Connor work sorry Connor car snow car wanna play some more Connor,  _oh my dear lord, Connor_.  
  
"Lieutenant Anderson. My name is Connor. I'm the android sent by Cyberlife."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! Here we go with the end of Part 1!  
> We are super excited about this small project went - we would have never expected such a huge following and such lovely comments, support, appreciation. We are absolutely over the moon and can't wait to continue.  
> Part 2 will be up soon, as a continuation to this work, and we hope to see you all again!  
> Shout out to Kurlzzzzzzz, Ryuteki, Melusina, a123lol321a, rowiian, Elzie (gallaxygay), Slythersister, Rex, epi_phony and thekatyariver for leaving a comment on the previous chapter!  
> Thank you, thank you, thank you <3  
> See you soon!


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